


This day

by stillsolovely



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: (I'm sorry there is a lot of angst don't hate me), All's well that ends well?, Also I just straight up quote from the book, Also I need beta readers I don't have friends, And a bunch of other characters too, But they end up kissing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I Tried, I'm probably forgetting to tag something important, M/M, Oh well enjoy!, Simon might be a bit ooc, penny is mentioned, poor baz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-25 00:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21347545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillsolovely/pseuds/stillsolovely
Summary: I feel like I’m simultaneously hit by lightning and dumped in an ice bath.I don’t feel like smiling anymore.“You know,” I start, standing, my eerily calm and level. Two strides and I’m standing right in front of him, forcing him to look up at me. “If you would have said ‘incapable of being loved’, I wouldn’t even have fought you.”Simon says something stupid. Baz gets mad. But since they’re both stupid they end up kissing.(I promise the fic is better than my summary.)
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 11
Kudos: 208





	This day

**Author's Note:**

> Hi :) 
> 
> I don't really have anything to add here, just wanted to say hi.

_I hate this whole fucking day._

I wish I never got out of bed.

I wish I had ignored Snow's thrashing, his insistent muttering, his loud footsteps as he padded over to the bathroom. 

I wish I had skipped class, gone down to the Catacombs, instead of sitting in front of him, feeling his stare on the back of my head in all of our shared classes.

I wish I hadn’t agreed to meet up with my father, that he hadn’t insisted on driving over to check on me. 

I wish Fiona would have come.

I wish he wouldn’t have noticed Wellbelove sending me a small, shy wave from across the Great Lawn, with a smile on her face. 

I wish he wouldn’t have gotten sidetracked again, that we wouldn’t have had that infernal ‘‘Basilton, when are you going to start looking for a girl’/’I’m gay’’ conversation. 

I just fucking wish that this whole fucking day never fucking happened.

**...**

I’ve been sitting in this empty classroom for the past hour, enjoying my lonesome pity party, when Snow comes barging into the room. 

I have my head tilted backwards, leaning against the wall, with my eyes closed. I don’t have the energy to open them. 

“Baz,” he greets, tossing something onto the table.

Magicking the blackboard up into our room has become annoying, and I got tired of waiting for Bunce to sneak into Mummers without being seen. So I showed them the old music rooms: the Mage stopped most of the arts education at Watford, so this whole wing is abandoned and forgotten. 

The rooms aren’t particularly big, and the windows are so dirty that light barely seeps through. But there are desks and chairs, and multicoloured pieces of chalk. 

“Did you get any new clues? Penny’s studying for something – I don’t know, Magic Words maybe?” I can imagine him scratching the back of his neck. “Maybe, I don’t know. Probably not, because then I should be studying, too. She said she’s gonna study for that, uh, thing? And then join us. I don’t even know why she studies, it’s not like she needs to.” 

I don’t move. 

He’s become even more of a nuisance since the truce. Every half-nice sentence directed at me reminds me why I’ve been pretending to hate him for the past 7 years. I can’t let myself get close to him.

I keep my eyes closed. 

“So yeah, she’s gonna join us after she finishes, and then… uh… she sent me to tell you, plus… notes! Penn sent notes, and I got the books from our room, which, by the way, you really could have helped me with.”

I lift my head to level him with a glare. 

I’m a constant disappointment to myself. 

I can’t even ignore him for a few minutes.

He’s looking at me, and when I don’t respond, he throws up his arms. 

“Fine, or not. Crowley, moody much.” The pauses, cocking his head to the side. “How’d your meeting go with your dad?” 

My body goes rigid from his change of topic. (I really should have expected it.) “None of your business, Snow,” I spit out at him. And maybe he doesn’t deserve it, but that has never stopped me before. 

I need the normalcy of our bickering after this morning. 

“If you’re going to spend your time being a blustering idiot and annoying me, then please leave. You don’t even need to bother coming back with Bunce.” He stares at me, gaping, for a split second, and then I’m immediately assaulted with the overpowering smell of his magic. 

I nearly smile. 

“Do you always have to be such an insufferable git? Merlin, why do I even fucking bother with you?! Would you being nice for like two seconds kill you?!” 

He turns to scoop up the books, muttering under his breath. 

It’s quiet. 

But I hear it nonetheless.

“Bloody vampire, betcha incapable of love.”

I feel like I’m simultaneously hit by lightning and dumped in an ice bath. 

I short-circuit. 

I don’t feel like smiling anymore. 

“You know,” I start, standing, my voice eerily calm and level. Two strides and I’m standing right in front of him, forcing him to look up at me. “If you would have said ‘incapable of being loved’, I wouldn’t even have fought you.” 

(I would even have let the vampire comment slide.)

(He would have been right.)

My father doesn’t love me. He only cares about me because the House of Pitch needs an heir. An obedient, conservative, emotionless heir, willing to hand over his no-longer-existent soul to the Old Families, to do their bidding; to be straight, to marry, to make a bunch of blond-haired, brown-eyed babies. I bloody well should marry Wellbelove.

My step-mother doesn’t love me. Daphne only cares about me out of necessity. Or possibly because she’s too sweet for her own good. 

None of my siblings love me. Too young to even know what that means; or maybe they do, but they sure as hell wouldn’t if they knew what I was. Too young to understand what that means. 

My mother sure as hell wouldn’t love me. The great Natasha Grimm-Pitch, the hero, the legend, died killing vampires. She killed herself: chose death so that she wouldn’t have to live as one of them. My mother couldn’t have loved me; not as a vampire, not as a one of the dark creatures she set ablaze along with herself. She should have made sure to take me, too. 

(He would have been right. But he’s so fucking wrong now.)

“Maybe my mother wouldn’t have loved me.” 

I can see him trying to butt in, but my vision is already blurring from the anger rolling through me, causing my hands, my knees, my breath to shake. I’m not quite sure when it started. 

“Shut up!” I might be screaming. I don’t fucking know where the blood is coming from, but it’s all in my ears: I can hear it humming, silencing every other noise around me. 

“Maybe my father doesn’t love me. Maybe not even my stepmother does, or my siblings, or even Fiona, now that she had to save me from fucking numpties–” 

His brow scrunches up and he opens his mouth again, but I take a determined step forward, pushing his shoulder hard enough to tip his balance. He takes a clumsy step backwards to steady himself. 

“I said, shut up! I’m not fucking finished!” I’m definitely screaming.

I make my voice drop dangerously again. Every part of me is shaking, screaming out in pain or just totally numbed, but my voice is steel. “Maybe they don’t. I never gave them a reason to.” 

I set my jaw, staring him in the eyes. 

Blue eyes. 

They kept me going in that godforsaken coffin. 

They keep me going now, when the anger coursing through me feels so much like the fire that has consumed me ever since I realized I had feelings for this fucking shithead. 

_Blue eyes._

They kept me sane. 

They are what’s driving me towards insanity now. 

“But don’t you fucking dare say that I’m incapable of love.” 

I spent years training my face into a mask of indifference, covering any emotion with smirks and sneers, making sure to never show anyone any signs of weakness. If people think that nothing can hurt me, they’ll stop trying. 

No fun poking a bear if it doesn’t get angry. 

But I’m angry. 

And this beautiful moron has hurt me over and over and over again.

Half of the time it may have been unintentional, but I’m so fucking done with today. 

I’m so fucking done with pretending. 

“I love my mother with the entirety of my unbeating heart, and I hate myself more every time I realize how much of a disappointment I would have been to her.” I take another step, pushing him again with my open palm, sending his shoulder backwards. His feet don’t budge though, and now I’m just a breath away from him. 

Good. Makes it easier to push him.

(And admire him.)

(I can’t seem to enjoy the latter right now, though.)

“Do you know why I go to the Catacombs so often?” I shove him as his lips twitch. “Don’t you dare answer! I’ll fucking tell you why! And it’s not to drain rats or plot your demise, Chosen One; it’s to go to her! To visit her grave, to magick her flowers fresh, to be near her, to pretend, to talk to her, to apologize, to beg her to–” I close my eyes, and I can feel my breath stagger, so I jut my jaw out anew. 

Snow’s expression flickers. 

“–I don’t even know what! But I love my mother! I even love my stepmother, because not once did she make me feel unwanted. And I love my father, no matter how many homophobic comments he makes or how many different ways he ignores my ‘condition’–” I make exaggerated speech marks right in front of his face “–or how much like a failure he makes me feel like. And I love Fiona, and my siblings, annoying as they all are.” 

I shove into him again. 

“Mordelia, especially. She’s sharp and witty and curious and much better than I was at her age.” 

Every single one of my limbs is shaking, blood is still pounding in my ears, and my vision is still blurred around the edges, reddening, tunneling. It makes his face, smack-dab before me, front-and-centre, even sharper. 

(It’s what I always focus on, anyway.)

“I even love those two absolute fools, because they’re my only friends, and maybe I’d hate Dev if he wasn’t my cousin, and maybe I’d hate Niall too, but I fucking can’t!”

My eyes must be flashing with raw emotion, but my mouth has already done all the work: I’m not worrying about my gaze betraying me.

I’m saving him the trouble of casting a truth spell. 

Must be his lucky day. 

I let my heart lead for once in my life, and while my mind is probably screaming at me to shut up, back down, give up, I can’t bring myself to listen. 

I can’t bring myself to care. 

I can’t bring myself to pretend. 

I’m so fucking done with pretending. 

I died when I was 5. Then I felt like I was dying since I was 15, every single time I looked at Snow, every time I pushed him further away from me, every time I sneered at him, smirked at him, insulted him, made him hate me more and more.

I can’t bring myself to care that I’ll probably – properly – die again tonight. 

I push into him again. 

And again and again and again and again, with both hands, until he finally takes a step backwards. 

And then I push into him again, harder. And harder and harder and harder, until his back slams into the wall. 

And then I get up into his personal space, pressing myself towards him as he presses himself hopelessly into the wall, as close as I dare, as close as I can without touching him. 

I’ve planned to tell him as he kills me. He might not have drawn his sword yet, but he’s killing me now anyway. He always is. 

He’s too much. 

It’s all too much; something broken can’t contain something desperate to overflow. 

“And don’t you even get me started on you.” 

I barely register the confusion seeping across his features. 

I can’t see, I can’t hear, I can’t breathe, I can’t think, I can only feel. 

And I’m feeling so fucking much. 

“Don’t fucking ask me why, because Aleister Crowley, I don’t know, it isn’t like you ever gave me reason to. But you’ve got your incredibly mundane blue eyes, your abnormally messy curls, your gold skin and your irritating moles and freckles, and I want to trace with my lips over them more than I have wanted anything else in my life. You have an absolutely not endearing inability to speak, you’re unable to spit out a coherent sentence for the life of you, and have an infuriating talent to mess up even the simplest of spells. You’re blindly loyal and have that whole fucking hero complex thing going on. You’re not the one I hated; I’ve only ever hated myself. And I don’t care that I _should_ hate you, I don’t care that I’m expected to kill you, I don’t care that I’m going to die an even bigger disappointment to my family when I let you kill me; I don’t care that you hate me.” 

(I don’t care.) 

(I do care.) 

My voice breaks, and I’m crying. 

(I do care.) 

“I love you, Simon!” I scream it at his face, in his face; not even this oblivious twat can misinterpret this. Punch his arm for good measure. “I love you more than anything or anyone else. I love you more than I love life itself.”

The end is drowned out by sobs. 

My eyes refocus and snap back up to his the second I feel his hands on my elbows. 

All the fight leaves my body, and the adrenaline that was probably keeping me upright flows out along with it. 

I’m left curling into myself, into him.

Slumped against Snow. 

Fucking empty.

Crumbling.

“I hate you so fucking much,” I whisper into his shoulder, punching my fist limply into his other one, “you courageous fuck, you absolute nightmare.”

His hands leave my arms, and one twists around my waist; the other one lays atop mine. My hands are bunching the fabric of his shirt, nails digging into his skin, my face buried in his neck, blubbering onto his skin. 

I don’t have the energy to care. 

He’s running the pad of his thumb over my knuckles, but I don’t loosen my grip. 

I’m tethered to the world. 

I don’t know why he’s being so gentle with me. 

He keeps pushing me backwards, only stopping once my thighs bump into the edge of a table. His hand slides off my waist as he bends down, and I have to steady myself on the table with my free hand lest I collapse before him. 

“I really hate you.” 

“I know.” 

And then he scoops me up, sits me down onto the table, and tips my chin up towards his face.

Swipes his thumbs under my eyes. 

And he kisses me. 

**...**

I’m definitely too far gone. 

(And I don’t mean it in the in love sense; I mean mad. Batty. Off my head.) 

(But the in love thing, too.) 

I’m definitely hallucinating. There is no way that Simon Snow is kissing me, not any way, and surely not this gently, but still so passionately. There is no way that his hand is cupping my face, his thumb tracing patterns over my cheeks, wiping away the left tears; his other hand tangled in my hair. 

There is no way that he’s kissing me, willingly, not within this universe and not in the next one, either.

Is this how he decided to say goodbye before killing me? Is this his idea of a kind death? Is he killing me? Or did he already kill me? 

Surely Hell wouldn’t be this nice. 

He pulls away, resting his forehead against mine. When I open my eyes, he’s already staring into mine, an almost indecipherable smile playing on his lips. 

He presses his lips against mine briefly, then grabs my hand and pulls me off the table. 

I stumble gracelessly as he keeps pulling me, towards the door, out of the room, down the corridor, outside, over to Mummers House, up the stairs, and into our own room. 

My brain seems to unthaw by the time he closes the door behind us, and I regain enough of my survival instincts to force all my walls back up. 

Snow has a sword. 

I need my shields. 

Somehow, even after all of this, I’m not dead. At least not any more dead than I was when I woke up. And while I might have come to terms with the fact that I will die a painful and untimely death, I don’t have a death wish. 

(I need to save myself.) 

He steps up to me, his hands reaching for me. 

And I don’t know if this really is saving me, or if it’s just the newest form of torture, but I hold my hand up. 

(I thought imagining kissing him was tortuous; imagining that he could be kissing me, were I not so hellbent on ruining my own life, is infinitely worse.)

“Stop.” 

He quite literally halts, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. 

I can hear my heart telling me that he’d let me reach over, kiss the expression off his face, smooth the furrow out with my fingers. 

(I really must be crazy.) 

I can see his fingers twitch, then, seemingly making a decision, starts moving towards me again. 

“Don’t.” 

He lets his hand drop, and I fight every urge to not catch it. Huffing out a breath, he tilts his head to the side, not letting me break his stare. 

“Baz.” 

He ruins me. He has always ruined me, but the soft, breathy way he speaks my name is making me forget how to think all over again. 

I need my shields. 

“I don’t need your fucking pity, Snow!” I snarl at him, my voice rising to hide the hurt. 

Trying to pretend I’m not hurting has never hurt so much. 

(I’m not done pretending.)

“I don’t pity you, you wanker! What the fuck would I pity you for?”

Anger flares up in me again, and I straighten, setting my shoulders back. 

“Shut up, my turn.” He continues before I can try interrupting him. “You’re the most annoying, meanest, cruelest dickhead asshole tosser I have ever met. You cannot admit defeat, you think you’re always right, and you think you’re better than anyone and everyone. Strong. Graceful. Fucking ruthless. So bloody smart. Evil plotting vampire – and don’t you dare trying to fight me on that right now, _Tyrannus_! You’re top of the year, the best player on the whole football team, the most incredibly gorgeous person in this whole entire school probably!” 

I blink at him stupidly. 

(This is the moment I die.)

“And maybe you don’t have it all like I thought you did.” He bites his lip, taking a tentative step towards me. He softens again. “I’m sorry about your mum. And I’m sorry that your father is an even bigger asshole than you are.” 

Swatting at my upper arm, he adds, “but by Merlin, I don’t pity you.” 

Snow has never been good with words. That’s half the reason his spells never land properly. But I’m pretty sure that this spell, charm, or whatever it is, is working on me. So when he reaches for my chin, I don’t jerk away. 

The kiss is so short I might not even have noticed it, were I not so attuned to all of his movements.

“And I’m sorry for being such an asshole.” He throws me a lopsided grin, “I suppose we match better than I realized.”

His hands have taken to cupping my cheeks again, so I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to. 

Shameful. 

His eyes are so soft, his whole face is so soft, (his lips were so soft); soft, soft, soft; so much softness directed at me. 

I take it back, this is the moment I die, because I‘m going to have a heart attack. 

He smacks my arm again. “And you don’t get to hold this over my head, d’ya hear me? You don’t get to make fun of me for being wrong, because you’re even more wrong. Crowley, if I wouldn’t have spent a full year stalking you and wouldn’t know that you’re the biggest nerd to ever live – don’t tell Penny, she thinks she holds that title – I’d think you nearly as idiotic as I am.” 

I huff out a snort involuntarily, and his whole face lights up. 

It takes him a couple of moments to school his expression back into serious, but he swats at me again once he manages. “Stop being distracting, I’m not done.” 

He steps up closer, and I feel every single breath on my face. 

He’s definitely got me under a spell. 

“You do love. But you’re also loved. You aren’t unwanted. I don’t know your family, never understood them, hell, never even liked them, considering the whole ‘they want me dead’ situation, but even I can see that they love you. Your father came to visit you, to make sure you’re okay. And your insane aunt saved you from numpties? Which… _what_?

“You’re telling me that story once I finish, you already got your opportunity to rant.”

He throws up his hands. “You’ve also got Dev and Niall, because there is no way that anyone can hang out with you that much without loving you.”

Then, barely even a whisper, “and your mother loves you too.” 

He must notice the way my breath catches, because he lets his hand rest on my face again. 

(Crowley, he’s warm.) 

I lean into his touch.

“She came back for you, to talk to you. You’re her son. Her rosebud boy. She gave me a kiss to pass onto you.

“And–” he worries his lower lip between his teeth “and I don’t love you–” 

I flinch. 

He’s not stating anything I wouldn’t have already known. 

It doesn’t stop it from being a fatal blow. 

His hand presses into me further. “Let me finish,” he growls. “I don’t love you yet, but I’m going to. I don’t think you’re easy to love, can’t imagine it. But I’m not going to fight you. I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to fall in love with you, because I’m pretty sure I’m already halfway there.” 

How the hell did I get into Heaven?

He shrugs. “I don’t know, it’s definitely permanently on the top of my list of things not to think about.” 

This might all be a nightmare-turned-dream.

But listening to my heart is what got me here. 

It’s what got me to our room, with Simon Snow standing in front of me, his hand caressing my face, his voice soft and promising, telling me he’s going to love me.

I’m not delusional enough to believe it, but fuck it. 

(Fuck it all.) 

I push myself away from the door and latch my lips onto his. 

**...**

I’ve lost the ability to think numerous times today, but Snow kissing me made my brain melt. Just a few minutes ago, my mind was working faster than my mouth had been, spinning at the speed of light, and now I can’t think of anything other than _him_. He snogs me senseless, until I can’t breathe, until I forget everything except his name. My world narrows to blue eyes, bronze curls, soft lips. 

(Really, that bit is not that much different from normal.)

It doesn’t matter that I have no idea what I’m doing; Snow does enough for the both of us. He runs his tongue over my lower lip, tangling his with mine the second I open my mouth. His hands are in my hair; mine are running up and down the entirety of his body, across his back and waist and chest, up his arms, across his jaw, into his soft curls, incapable of stopping, desperately trying to memorize every minuscule detail before Snow comes to his senses and ends this. 

“You really are incredibly gorgeous,” he says, when we’re just sprawling on my bed. He’s lying half on top of me, his head on my chest, our legs intertwined, but his head is tilted upwards so that he can look at my face. He props himself up on one elbow, lifting his hand from my stomach and bringing it up to trace down my nose, stroking lightly at the crook, where he broke it. 

“And you’re an idiot.” 

He grins at me. “So you’ve said.” 

I let myself imagine so many things, but none of my fantasies were ever like this. I never let myself imagine what he would look like with his head propped up, lying next to me on my bed, looking at me in wonder and astonishment, with a soft blush and smiling lips red and swollen from kissing _my_ lips, hair tousled from _my_ hands.

That would have been overly painful.

It doesn’t matter now, though. 

My imagination doesn’t stand a chance against this; it would never have been _this_ good.

I’ve never claimed to be anything other than self-destructive, though.

“Snow, we can’t do this.” 

He doesn’t back away, not even for a second. 

“Are you seriously trying to outdo me in stupidity?” He leans down and kisses me. “Yes we can. In fact,” he grins, “we really must. I can’t have let you give me a bloody bruise for no reason. You’re lucky that classrooms don’t have Anathemas, by the way.” He smirks. Leans in slightly closer. Whispers, “plus, you still haven’t kissed all of my moles.” 

My traitorous arm automatically wraps itself tighter around his waist, and the memory of the earlier reverence on his face softens something in me. 

"You still have to kill me," I say, letting myself kiss the mole on his cheek. 

His own arm tightens around me in response.

"I'd rather not."

"I really hate you," I whisper again.

(I really don’t.)

He hums. "I really don't."

And maybe I don’t hate the entirety of this day, either.

**Author's Note:**

> Public service announcement: _"It's not selfish to wish to be loved when you've been loving all along."_  
(creds. to whoever posted it on Instagram)
> 
> End of public service announcement. Please enjoy your day.
> 
> (Also, I really don't know if 'far gone' can be used to mean crazy, but it kinda sounded good? So... I kept it.)


End file.
